


let it roll, let it crash down low

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Crying, Depressed John Watson, Depression, Gen, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Whump, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Mess, emotional breakdown, ptsd episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 00:34:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: there’s a house down there but I lost it long ago.— Sisyphus, Andrew BirdOne day he met a strange man, with a strange name, called Sherlock, and his life flipped upside down. He felt something, finally, and it was something like peace. Something like happiness. With this strange person, he finally felt happy.But with the good came the different. But that was okay, he decided, because different didn’t always mean bad. It just meant different.Those days would come, though, the ones that reminded him of his pain, and the loneliness he once knew so well.Or: John Watson has a PTSD/depressive episode and Sherlock has to find a way to help.





	let it roll, let it crash down low

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many depressed!sherlock fics out there and not enough John ones so I made my own thank u and goodnight
> 
> Pls enjoy!

People talked, yet John heard nothing. It had been like that forever. Forever, as in, after the war.

He wouldn’t cry, no. Because there was nothing to cry about— all the people he killed over there, most he doesn’t even remember... he didn’t feel anything. Not regret, or sadness... it was just emptiness.

But one day he met a strange man, with a strange name, called Sherlock, and his life flipped upside down. He felt something, finally, and it was something like peace. Something like happiness. With this strange person, he finally felt happy.

But with the good came the different. But that was okay, he decided, because different didn’t always mean bad. It just meant different.

Those days would come, though, the ones that reminded him of his pain, and the loneliness he once knew so well.

“John. Tomato.” Sherlock’s voice was concentrated. 

“What?”

“Tomato, I said. Are you deaf?”

“Yeah, no, I heard that,” John muttered. “What about a tomato?”

“I need one. I need you to go and get me one.”

“We don’t have any.”

“Yes, I know. The shop is down the street—“

“I know where the shop is, Sherlock.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” His voice was becoming impatient.

John sighed. “I’m not going to the store. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

“What?” Sherlock scrambled up, breaking his position. “You’re not sick. I have your vitals checked once a week.”

John blinked. “That’s concerning, and we’ll talk about that later,” he said. “Right now, I’m just tired.”

“Tired?” he echoed, and for a moment John swore he could hear a hint of bewilderment in Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes.”

—

Pale light danced on the white comforter under John. He hadn’t bothered to actually get into bed, he simply just laid down— like a corpse, he thought morbidly.

The door was shut but not locked. It’s fine, he figured, because Sherlock wouldn’t come check on him anyways. He just wasn’t like that.

John tilted his head back, towards the one window that let the gentle afternoon light into the room, through thin white curtains that blew in the breeze. Everything was so calm.

He was a _doctor_. Not only that, but he was a doctor in the _army_. He should be better than this, because he knew what was happening; he’d seen it a thousand times over in those poor soldiers overseas, and he’d seen it in himself before, too. 

Yet he seemed helpless to avoid it.

—

John reached for his coat, and then swung the door open.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“To get your damn tomato.”

—

John had seen a few zombie movies in his lifetime. They had slightly different plot lines, but they all seemed to be pretty much the same. There’s a plague, or virus, and then it picks off the characters, one-by-one, until the hero, or heroes, find the cure. 

But there’s always a point in the movie when one of the pivotal characters catches the plague, and they come back almost normal, if not only noticeably off, before the disease takes hold.

That’s what he felt like, as he walked around the old grocery store on the corner of Melcomb and Glentworth. He knew there were people talking, and somehow he found a way to respond, but he heard nothing. He was acting on autopilot now, and he didn’t know of a way to gain control again.

He paid for his items, remembering the tomatoes, and then walked numbly through the sliding glass doors and onto the street outside.

The cold blue sky had turned gray, and he found himself staring blankly down the street. It was paved, and the buildings on it were new and modern, but he couldn’t help feeling the ancientness of this city. People were walking here thousands of years ago— and they will a thousand years from now.

And in that moment, he couldn’t take it. The bags he was carrying were far too heavy, and his arms and legs were fatigued. He found the nearest bench and sat down.

It took a moment to realize that his heart had begun to hammer in his chest, which he found odd because depression didn’t do that. Anxiety did. Maybe he really was going insane.

His left hand trembled for a second and John almost lost it, right then and there. This couldn’t start up again, not after all these years. 

He made a mental note to self— it’s time to check in with that therapist again. Yeah, maybe that would do him some good. 

John nearly jumped out of his skin when someone sat down next to him. At first the stranger didn’t speak, so John ignored him.

“I’m Roger,” the man told him. John took a closer look, and decided he was probably homeless. He looked familiar, though. “And you are...?”

“John,” he said back, breathing tightly through his nose. “You know what, I should really be off—“

“You need help.”

He looked down at his groceries. “No, no, I don’t—“

“Not with that.” 

“What?”

“Not with your groceries. Tell him.”

John stood still for a moment. “Tell who,” he muttered.

“You know who.“

John turned his back, resting his forehead in his hands. “I cannot fucking believe this.”

“What?” the man seemed offended, but John didn’t care.

“He couldn’t have just talked to me, he had to... he had to fucking go through his homeless army— Jesus Christ.” John almost seethed with anger. He turned around again, glaring at the man. “You— you should leave, before I break your ribs.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, and he seemed to scurry off to nowhere. 

He knew how Sherlock was with these kinds of things, but this, _this_, was a new low. 

—

“Take your goddamn tomatoes,” John said bitterly, throwing the bag on the table. “There’s butter there, too, so put it in the fridge.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Sherlock asked.

“What’s gotten into me?” he echoed indignantly. “_Me_?”

“Yes, you,” he exclaimed.

“What’s gotten into _you_?” John hovered near the door that led upstairs, livid. “Your fucking— your fucking homeless servants? You don’t have the nerve to come ask me yourself, huh? Is that it?”

Sherlock’s face was blank, and John had had enough. 

“I’m going to bed,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare bother me.”

—

John didn’t want to die. He knew that— he knew the whole goal here was to survive. To live despite everything else.

Yet there was something inside him that wanted that— _death_— to be the answer. 

And it scared him, that he could ever think of betraying himself— and life itself— at all. But depression seemed to be funny like that.

So he just laid there, on top of his bed, until the world outside his window turned dark, as if someone had pulled the lamp string of the sky. He counted his breaths and got to two hundred and thirty seven before quitting— and the he counted his blinks. Distraction that wasn’t distraction, that didn’t require him to move his body. Because he wasn’t entirely sure he could.

Hours seemed to crawl by, and yet sleep wouldn’t take him. He knew why, but it didn’t matter. 

He wanted to cry, but he could never get that close to emotion. He wanted to tell Sherlock, but he was still angry. None of it made sense and the fact that it didn’t seemed to cloud his brain, making everything impossible.

He wouldn’t let himself think about the war, because long ago he made a promise to himself to never look back. It’s over and done and there was nothing he could do to change it.

And still the emptiness of those memories seemed to haunt him. He though of what his therapist said once, about how sometimes, when it feels impossible to get up, you’ve got to force yourself to do it. 

John liked to think that he was just there to live in spite of everything else. So with the last bit of strength and willpower he had left, he lifted himself up off the bed and went back downstairs. He didn’t feel rested at all, but it was nothing new. 

As he reached for his coat, he heard Sherlock speak.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Just... out,” he muttered. He didn’t have the strength to hide anything from Sherlock, like he would with everyone else. 

“John...”

“What?” he hissed. “I’m— I’m exhausted, my brain is moving too fast, and I can’t fucking _help_ it.”

There was silence for a while, but John just stood still. Then, just as he was about to move, Sherlock said something again.

“Can I come with you?

John thought about it for a moment, at first livid, but then as he got tired of thinking he just nodded, weakly said, “sure,” and put his coat on.

—

Sherlock wasn’t like he usually is, which took John by surprise. He was quiet. Gentle. It was all so strange.

“Why are you acting like this,” John murmured. “What’s... what’s new with you?”

Sherlock frowned. “Nothing.”

John just sighed, and continued walking.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Doesn’t matter, I guess.”

“You’re just walking to walk.”

“Sure.”

They made their way to a little lookout spot on the edge of the Thames, and John decided that this is where the train stops. He was exhausted, but somewhat proud that he’d forced himself to go outside— even though it was probably far too late.

“Here. Why here?”

John turned his head, sitting down on the park bench. “I like the water,” he shrugged. Sherlock could tell that his voice sounded lifeless.

There was a type of anticipation suspended in the air between them for a moment until Sherlock spoke.

“You’re hurting.”

John thought about that for a moment, before curtly nodding his head. 

Sherlock continued. “It’s not me. It’s... _definitely_ the war’s fault but you won’t let yourself think about that. You’d rather just think it’s nothing.” He talked like he did when he was solving a case, though, and John hated it.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he muttered. “I’m not Scotland Yard. I’m not someone you’re trying to impress, damnit.”

A pause. “Okay. I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, shaking his head. “When I met you, you were a broken man.”

John smiled bitterly. “Don’t hold back, I guess.”

“No, it’s true. Don’t pretend it isn’t. You’d gotten home from war, and you couldn’t even _walk_ straight on your own.”

“Yeah, well, now I can.”

“I know.” He sighed. “You’re not that man anymore, John. We both know that.”

“What is your point?”

“My point is that... you can talk to me, or not talk to me, whichever you fancy— but I’ll be here anyways. Whenever you need me.”

John let out a shaky exhale. “Sherlock...”

“No. Listen, I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with. That’s why you’re different. You put up with me, so I... I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Sherlock, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m scared I might.... you know. There’s a part of me that’s... um, I...” he trailed off, clearly unsure. 

Sherlock blinked, confusion and fear sweeping through his gaze within a split second, and then he was back to normal. 

“Do we need to check you in?” he asked, with a gentle understanding.

“No, I... I don’t know.”

“‘I don’t know’ means yes.”

“I know I won’t— I couldn’t ever do that. It’s just... _something_ inside me that wants,” he sighed, core seeming to shiver with the cold. “wants death to be the solution. You know?”

“Solution to what?” Sherlock murmured, taking off his coat and handing it to John.

He just shook his head, eyes fixed on something on the river as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

“John, solution to what?” Sherlock repeated, a little louder.

John grimaced, and he seemed to draw into himself. “It’s... I can’t... I’m sorry. It’s just— it’s hard to....”

“Hard to talk about. I get it.”

He just nodded numbly, not daring to move his eyes towards Sherlock. He couldn’t. 

“I’m letting myself down, I’m letting my _country_ down, all the people I watched _die_ overseas, I...” he swallowed thickly. “I know I can’t go, but the emptiness, it’s... it’s still there.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, shifting. 

“I’m not a therapist. I’m probably the furthest thing from it. You know that.” His voice was quiet, yet it betrayed the subtle fear that crept in. “I don’t know what to do right now, but... I’m just going to be here. I’m just going to listen.”

“Okay.”

“I’m— I’m sorry.”

John scoffed. “For what?” he asked, only half-kidding. 

“For your brain, your circumstances, your life, that fact that I don’t know how to help,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded but kept quiet for a while. He let it a shaky breath, shut his eyes, and then spoke. 

“I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which you’ve known since the first day you met me. So I... uh... get relapses sometimes. Episodes, whatever.”

“You see the therapists. Every once and a while.”

“Yeah. I should probably go soon.”

“Probably.”

John laughed then, and finally looked over at Sherlock. 

“I’m a mess,” he whispered weakly. “I can’t— I don’t—“

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock murmured. “It’s just a bad day. That’s it.”

“Yeah, realistically, I know that,” he muttered, motioning with his hands. “I just... I don’t believe it right now. It feels like I’m going to be here forever.”

“Well, you’re not. You’ll feel better again. You’ll laugh again, I promise. I’ll see to that.”

He smiled sadly, but said nothing more. And then they just sat for a while, taking in the silence of the sleeping city and the light coming from the buildings, reflecting off the river. For a moment, everything seemed calm again.

And then suddenly, it wasn’t. Familiar guilt washed over John again, like he’s felt a million times. It wasn’t anything in particular— survivor’s guilt, maybe, or about his family, or the people he called friends overseas. It was as if the weight of his pst made it hard to breathe.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, deciding now was the moment that he should communicate— let Sherlock in. Let him understand. “I saw kids— young kids— who had this, too,” he said softly. “I saw the symptoms from outside long before I ever felt them.”

“Are you okay? John?” Sherlock spoke quickly, seemingly nervous. Something about John’s state wasn’t right.

“Not right now, no,” John whispered. “There’s so much guilt. It’s like I’m carrying the pain of hundreds.”

Sherlock only stared, with a sort of comforting presence, even though it was obvious how nervous he was.

So, John continued with the same somber, numb tone. “I couldn’t help any of them. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t reach them. Most got discharged, some dishonorably, some died in combat...” he took a deep, trembling breath. “I was a doctor, and I couldn’t help them. I can’t even help myself.”

“It’s okay...”

“What if I never get better? What if this is just how I was meant to be?” His voice broke at the end. “My parents, my sister... I can’t...” he lifted his hands up to cover his face, fingertips right under his eyes. “God, what am I supposed to do?”

Sherlock stared for a moment, butterflies fluttering, watching the person he loved most in the world crumble before his eyes, struck by the enemy within.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sherlock whispered lamely, hating the way he just didn’t know what to do.

“No, that’s the thing,” John whispered, words wavering, and Sherlock could see tears now. “I don’t know if it will. I’m s-so scared, Sherlock. I’m scared it’ll just be like this forever.”

“Come on,” he said softly, “You know that’s not true. Trust the logic.”

And at that, John lost it. Sobs wracked his body, and tears fell from his eyes that were squeezed shut, tight. “I can’t even trust myself,” he choked, between desperate gasps for air, and it might’ve been the most broken sound Sherlock’s ever heard. 

When Sherlock lifted a hand to pat his back, John crumbled yet again, this time leaning his head into Sherlock’s chest. Not quite knowing what to do, Sherlock just wrapped his arms around him— one around his arm and one resting between his shoulder and his neck, and clasped his hands together, resting them over his chest. It looked rather awkward, Sherlock noticed, but there really wasn’t anything he could do. So he just waited.

“We should go back,” John murmured after a while. “You must be tired.” The crying had stopped, but his voice sounded raw. He was still leaning sideways into Sherlock, but somehow, despite the angle, he felt comfortable— for the first time in a long time.

“I can go days without sleep, actually.”

“That’s true, I’ve seen you do it.” John paused, mildly amused, lifting his head. His eyes were still red and raw, but there was something else, there, too. As if a weight had been lifted. “Don’t do it again.”

—

Sherlock’s convinced that that night was the worst it had ever been, and hopefully the worst it will ever be. John seemed okay now, though. Sometimes a little down, but mostly okay.

He’d been holding the weight of his past for so long all alone, but now there was Sherlock. And Sherlock knew, so he wasn’t alone anymore— he’d never be completely alone.

Because it’s an easier weight for two people to carry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you can, please leave a comment to tell me what u thought!!


End file.
